


Major News

by getoffmyhead



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Injury Return, Las Vegas, M/M, Reporter Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyhead/pseuds/getoffmyhead
Summary: “Sid, I can ask a couple questions?”Sid’s face ran through a series of emotions: surprise at Geno’s presence, perplexity about his inquiry, concern about why Geno had a phone pointed toward him to record his answers, and then--he got it. A smile spilled across his face like oil on water until he looked so delighted. “Uh, Geno, right? With...that Russian paper?”
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 160





	Major News

Over two years into the Golden Knights’ franchise, it still felt strange to be in Nevada for hockey. Las Vegas itself barely seemed real, days and nights blurring together in a twenty-four-hour cycle without breaks--a city out of time.

Geno read somewhere that the strip was designed to disrupt circadian rhythm so people would party long after their bodies wanted to sleep. He could certainly believe it when he woke with light streaming through the crack in the curtains of his hotel room. Though he squinted, he couldn’t immediately discern whether it was artificial or sunlight. He had to rely on his phone’s glaring clock and the empty spot in the bed to tell him it was really time to rise.

On his way out, Geno grabbed a coffee from the hotel café in the lobby. He usually wouldn’t, but most reporters drank the stuff--he could smell it on them in scrums, the earthy scent of every exhale. Geno poured a few sugar packets into the cup and topped it up with cream to make it tolerable.

Penguins’ management sent the word out last night--practice was optional. They must have hoped it would dissuade the reporters from showing up, but Geno knew better. Every single beat regular would be at the Vegas practice ice that morning, optional or no. They had to be there because they knew what Geno knew about who would be skating.

Sure enough, Geno spied all the regulars in the stands when he entered the building, some jotting notes on actual paper--he kicked himself for not thinking of that. Geno could type twice as fast into his phone, but there was an authenticity to the old way. If he had just thought to buy a notepad for the occasion.

Instead of going to stand with the press corps, Geno went down to ice level and swung down into the expansive area in front of the double doors for the Zamboni. The resurfacer sat behind him, engine clicking as it cooled from its latest run while he set up shop at the glass, waiting and sipping his coffee. Bjugstad and Shultz were out on the ice already, skating apart from the team because of their injuries. Yesterday, another player was with them, isolated, not even allowed to join practice wearing a no-contact jersey.

Geno’s eyes caught Sid's trainer, Andy, walking out behind the bench, and his heart jumped into a faster beat. His arrival could only mean one thing.

Sid emerged from the tunnel, and Geno pulled himself away from slouching against the boards. He felt like a dog with his ears perked up and his tail wagging, waiting for a treat.

The treat came when Sid took the ice, passing the injured players on their way off. It felt symbolic, the way Sid sympathetically offered head-taps and shoulder-pats to the guys still struggling while he left them behind, something Geno would need to put into poetic words for his...article. He pulled out his phone to type notes. That’s what reporters did, made a record.

A sharp pop of noise jerked Geno’s eyes back to the ice. Sid skated backward away from him, grinning. He must have smacked his stick on the glass to make the noise. Geno nodded a greeting at him, and Sid pointed to the bench with a questioning gesture. _Why aren’t you there?_

Geno cut a look up at the press corps. They weren’t on the bench, the regulars. Press wasn’t allowed on or near the ice, but Sid must be feeling really proud of his imminent return. He _could_ want a reporter there to document it in detail, even if that reporter wasn’t from an English paper.

Geno made his way back and around, then down the tunnel to the bench. By the time the ice reemerged in his vision, Sid was done warming up. He and the other players there for optional skate were getting set up for a drill. Geno could feel questioning eyes on him from trainers and coaches--even the press corps up in the stands--when he settled uneasily on the bench to get a player’s eye view of the skaters.

Sid skated the full hour and then some, difficult as always to drag off the ice. He had that reputation. Geno started to get cold, just sitting there watching him, but this was the story of a lifetime. No self-respecting reporter would just wander off out of boredom or discomfort, so Geno stayed.

“Well, what do you think?” Sid asked without preamble when he stopped by the bench after the last of the drills. Geno wished he had a photographer with him to snap a picture of Sid’s colored-in face, flushed with exertion and giddiness.

“I think you look ready,” Geno said, subtly trying to find the record function on his phone in case Sid admitted he was returning soon.

But Sid just laughed and skated off, neither confirming nor denying, and that wouldn’t do. Geno would need more information if he wanted to get the real scoop.

The team didn't open the locker room for interviews. They usually didn’t, after a closed practice, so Geno would have to get creative to get access. He waited, hovering around the halls and trying to look inconspicuous until Sid got through with showering and dressing.

When Sid emerged through the locker room doors, Geno pounced.

“Sid, I can ask a couple questions?”

Sid’s face ran through a series of emotions: surprise at Geno’s presence, perplexity about his inquiry, concern about why Geno had a phone pointed toward him to record his answers, and then--he got it. A smile spilled across his face like oil on water until he looked so delighted. “Uh, Geno, right? With...that Russian paper?”

“You know I am, stop it.”

“Aren’t press supposed to be polite?” Sid asked, but he didn’t look genuinely bothered by Geno’s brusqueness. He was still smiling--almost laughing--at Geno.

“No,” Geno said firmly, determined to get this interview on track. Sid would derail him if Geno gave him any wiggle room. “Tell me how you feel.”

Sid coughed a surprised laugh, eyes nearly crinkling shut with delight. “I feel--G, for real?”

“Yes, for real. You sore? Feel okay to skate? Don’t worry, I translate for you in Russian, make you sound smart.”

“I, uh--” Sid wrestled his smile under control, mostly. It still showed in places as he met Geno’s eyes and said, “I feel great. This was the first time I’ve really skated with the team and been able to do everything. It feels amazing to get back on the ice without any kind of restriction.”

“You think you play soon?”

Geno watched the gears turn in Sid’s head, running his answer through the public-address translator--he never gave the press anything. “I hope so. I feel good, but I know I can’t rush things. I’m following the advice of my trainers and doctors, so whenever they say I’m ready, that’s when I’ll be back.”

“You also clear for other thing? Not hockey?”

Sid’s eyes sharpened on Geno’s face, interest like an arrow. “Sure, I’m cleared for all activity. Hockey’s probably the most physically taxing thing I do, so anything else would be fine.”

Geno licked his lips and watched Sid’s eyes flick down to his mouth. “Anything?”

“Yeah,” Sid said. He ducked under the bill of his hat for a second and cleared his throat, then brought his eyes up to Geno’s face again. “My doctor said I can get back to strenuous...exercise.”

If Sid looked at a camera like he looked at Geno just then, the league would fine him for indecent behavior. Luckily for Sid, Geno had decided to work in a written medium and wasn't doing any video recording.

“Can we go off the record for a second?” Sid asked. His voice was starting to get a little husky--he wanted to make Geno break.

“No, I get everything for paper. Big story.”

“You know, press is not really supposed to be back here today,” Sid said, smirking at him. “I could have management throw you out.”

Geno would honestly love to see Sid try to explain that to Jen. “But you invite me. You say, come to bench. I’m special reporter, hmm?”

“Very special,” Sid said. He cocked his head and considered Geno coyly. “Maybe, since you're such a special reporter. You want the inside scoop on how much activity I can get away with?”

“Yes, it’s important to get everything. For article.”

Sid reached out, and Geno did nothing to stop him from taking the phone. “No recording.”

“How will I remember?” Geno asked.

“Oh, trust me. You’ll remember. Come on.”

Sid led Geno down the halls like an expert, weirdly familiar with the practice facility of the Golden Knights. It was almost as though Sid had sought private places to slip away and screw around before--a scandal if it ever came to light. Geno-the-reporter was no gossip rag shill, but anyone would want to sink their claws into _that_ story.

Sid shoved Geno into a room, closed the door, and didn’t hesitate to pull Geno into an open-mouthed and eager kiss. Amusement bubbled up in Geno's chest, thinking about how the regular gaggle of reporters would react to this. Not only did Sid know for a fact that this room would be empty, but he also immediately went in for heavy making out without any preamble. The press corps wouldn’t even recognize this guy with his tongue in Geno’s mouth and his fingers locked around Geno's neck.

Sid ripped away long enough to get his own shirt off. Geno’s eyes drew down, looking for the scars from the recent surgery, small and mostly healed. Still, the sight of them rocked Geno back, made him pause and think.

"You good?" Geno asked. 

“Yeah,” Sid panted, barely acknowledging the question before answering. Geno stopped Sid from diving back into kissing with a hand on his chest, prompting a wet-cat pout. “What?”

“You good, really?” Geno said significantly, pushing.

Sid sucked in a breath--an expression of his burden. “Yes. _Really_. I’m good to go. Now--game on, man. You went to all this trouble to--”

Geno wrapped a hand around the back of Sid’s neck to pull their mouths together and cut off the exasperated tirade. His mind wandered back to the article that he would want to write. Maybe he could change his mind about being a gossip writer. Forget the injury--Geno felt sure the reading public would be far more interested in why the NHL golden boy kissed on expert mode, lewd and filthy.

Sid tore away to nuzzle along Geno’s jawline. While he still had the brain cells to spare, Geno took the opportunity to ask, “How many boys you bring here?”

“Off the record?” Sid asked, eyes shining when he pulled back to grin at Geno.

“You have my phone,” Geno said. Without his phone, there could be no record. “You come to Vegas only, like, couple time.”

“Yeah, once a season since they came in the league. Different conferences,” Sid said with a shrug, clearly curious where Geno was taking this line of questioning.

“You bring boy here every time?”

“Maybe,” Sid replied, smirking. “Why? You jealous?”

Geno tipped his head back to let Sid mouth at his neck and suck kisses onto his throat. Sid’s hands seemed like they were everywhere, rucking up Geno’s shirt one second and gripping his thigh the next. “Maybe I write story. How you find boy to kiss, every arena.”

Sid snorted. “How would you know it’s every arena? Besides, nobody will believe you without your recorder.”

“They believe.”

Sid reared back, obviously tired of fighting Geno’s shirt for every inch of skin he wanted to touch. He yanked it over Geno’s head and tossed it. “Well,” Sid said absently, eyes roaming over Geno’s chest and stomach. He licked his lips before he dragged his eyes up to meet Geno’s, trying for innocent pleading and landing somewhere much dirtier. “That would be terrible for me. What can I do to keep you from writing that story?”

Geno forced himself to leer instead of getting caught in the intensity of Sid’s gaze. He gave his best indifferent shrug. “Maybe I write anyways, no matter what. Maybe you can do nothing.”

“No, I can convince you,” Sid said confidently. Anyone would believe anything he said in that tone. "What do you want? Money?"

Geno snorted. "Stop."

"Hockey lessons?" Sid offered with a sly little smirk.

"Fuck you," Geno sneered even as he was fighting a laugh at how shameless Sid could be trying to get a rise out of him. It always worked. 

Sid's eyebrows raised suggestively. "Fuck me?"

Geno's throat dried up even as he was forced to shake his head. Sid won this round. "No, it's--nothing here."

Sid looked around like he wanted to verify the lack of lube and shrugged when his search revealed the same nothing Geno found. "I'm sure we can figure something out. How do you feel about blow jobs?"

Geno tried not to think about how good Sid appeared to be at bribing the press with sexual favors not to publish stories about him. He licked his lips at the idea like the pleasure would be _all_ his when Geno said, “Sure, okay.”

Sid’s mouth pulled against a victorious smile, and he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Geno’s pants. His smirk said Geno had no idea what he was in for.

With permission obtained, Sid backed Geno up into the door with a conspicuous thump. Anyone walking by would have heard it. “Easy,” Geno murmured, but Sid just smirked at him while he lowered down to his knees and pulled Geno’s pants down to the floor to pool around his ankles. Geno put his head back with another thud when Sid swallowed him down.

Sid seemed very motivated to keep that article about his sexploits from being published--or he _really_ enjoyed sucking dick--because he went to town on Geno. Geno had seen porn with less enthusiastic cocksucking, the way Sid bobbed his head and slurped at him like he wanted to make as much noise as possible in the delicate situation. Geno felt for the doorknob to try to flick the lock, but it was smooth. Sid brought him to a room without a lock to slobber all over his junk--no wonder he was in a hurry.

Seemingly picking up on Geno's wandering attention, Sid pushed Geno's hips back so his ass connected with the cold door and he gasped. Sid kept his hands hard on Geno's hips and wouldn't let him twist away, all the while continuing his oral campaign to get Geno off as fast as humanly possible. And it was definitely fucking working. Before his butt totally adapted to the temperature of the door, Geno was feeling his balls tighten up. He tried to rock his hips forward just a tiny bit, aching for some movement against Sid's cruel hands so that he could push himself over.

Without warning, when Geno was _so_ close, Sid popped off and sat back on his heels. "What paper do you write for again?"

Geno should have known not to start games with Sid. He was competitive about _everything_, apparently even this. "Big newspaper. Russian. You don't read."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I've heard of it. Do you guys do media day?"

Geno named the first Russian paper he could think of so he could get Sid's mouth back on his cock. To his dismay, Sid lit up.

"I think I do know that one. They did the article on Ovechkin--"

"Please don't talk about Ovi. My dick fall off."

Sid smirked. No one would think his crimes were unintentional, but he got his mouth back to work so Geno forgave him. 

It went on like that--an endlessly cruel pattern of Sid sucking Geno’s dick until he forgot all about being a reporter and then, every time he got anywhere near the edge, Sid backing off until Geno was left on the verge of begging.

“How are you feeling about that article now?” Sid asked one of the many torturous times he pulled back to run his nose up the crease at the juncture of Geno’s thigh.

“Sid,” Geno pled, fruitlessly pushing Sid back to work. Sid bypassed his dick and went for his balls, licking at them so delicately it almost tickled.

“I can keep going if you still want to write it.”

Geno would shrivel up like a mummy if Sid kept pushing him to the edge and pulling him back. “No, no article.”

Sid rewarded him by gently engulfing one testicle and teasing his fingers along Geno’s taint. Sid pulled wetly off Geno’s balls, but he didn’t immediately get back to work on Geno’s dick to get him off. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? Maybe you’ll say anything to get off. Maybe I should leave you like this, leave you wanting more.”

Geno made a really undignified sound, close to a whimper. He wanted to believe Sid would never do that, but he knew better. Sid was very capable of telling him to pull his pants up and waddle uncomfortably back to the hotel. Geno had nothing to stand on here but Sid’s unpredictable sense of mercy.

“But then, that might make you mad at me, so then you’ll be _more_ likely to write it,” Sid pondered, tapping a finger against his lips in a cartoonish thinking gesture.

“Yes, I’m mad. Suck my dick.”

Sid exhaled a breathy laugh. Geno felt it against his wet ball sack. “Just keep in mind if you don’t write it, we can do this again.”

“No, I don’t write, I swear.” Geno barely knew what he was saying anymore in any language. He was just making sounds to get Sid’s mouth back where he wanted it.

Sid sucked his finger into his mouth briefly and pulled it out shiny. Then he finally swallowed Geno down with the intent to get him off, tongue pressing just right in all the best places while rubbing the wet finger against his hole. Geno sobbed when he came, hand braced on Sid’s shoulder while his knees went rubbery.

Sid pressed his face into Geno’s thigh and sighed. His breath felt warm and wet against Geno's skin. In the stillness, Geno realized he could feel Sid's shoulder moving where he was still gripping it--Sid was jerking off.

“Sid, let me."

“One sec,” Sid grunted.

“No, come.”

“Trying to.”

“_Sid_,” Geno demanded, pushing back on Sid’s shoulder to get some room so he could ease down to his knees and help. He let Sid continue to take care of his own cock, and instead ran his fingers down the sensitive skin on Sid’s inner thigh and up to juggle his balls. Sid’s breath caught when Geno rolled them on his palm, and he cursed on his exhale. Sid's hand sped up and he tipped himself over the edge, groaning low with his brow all furrowed up as he finished.

Geno dropped lazy kisses along Sid’s hairline, still cupping his balls, while Sid panted and shook in the afterglow. “Goddamn, G. What the fuck?” Sid’s tone sounded awed, not even a little upset. Geno preened.

“You say before it’s maybe hot. Hook up with reporter.” Geno couldn’t even remember how the subject came up over dinner, but it ended with Sid blushing and laughing at himself for his own weird fantasy.

“It’s _stupid_ fucking hot, but I can’t believe you really did it. You could have slept in.”

“No. Have to come get story on injury for Moscow. Big news.”

Geno could feel Sid’s chuckle where he still had his forehead on Geno’s shoulder. “Everyone thought you lost your mind, coming down here just to hang out. Andy asked me if you were being secretly evaluated. He was pretty offended he didn’t know.”

“Shut up. I come sometimes,” Geno muttered, because he _did_. He sometimes came to optional skates to hang out. He could think of at least one during the last Cup run.

“No, you don’t,” Sid said, rearing back to grin at him dopily. “Besides, it wasn’t really _you_, eh? Just some reporter, nosing around, trying to figure out where we hook up in every city.”

Geno loved him so much. “Right, some reporter. I chase him off, say only mine.”

Sid snorted and moved experimentally. After so long on his knees, he got up pretty gingerly. “Next time, we’ll have to get you a Newsies hat. Maybe some suspenders.”

“Sure.” Geno would wear any kind of hat Sid wanted if it got his dick sucked like that. He had no doubt the mysterious Russian beat reporter would be back. Sid was too into it to let it go.

**Author's Note:**

> Is a blowjob really explicit? Maybe not, but just to be on the safe side.


End file.
